


Mike and Psmith in the NHL

by derryderrydown



Category: Hockey RPF, Psmith - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Gen, Notfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-27
Updated: 2013-10-27
Packaged: 2017-12-30 15:46:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1020482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/derryderrydown/pseuds/derryderrydown





	1. On Arrival in the Colonies

Mike had coaxed Psmith out of their shared accommodation early enough that they were the first in the locker room, but it was still only a matter of minutes before Psmith was leaning back in his stall and saying, with bored delight, "Comrades Crosby and Malkin! It is, indeed, a pleasure and an honour to find ourselves in such august company."

Mike looked up from his gear bag, and nodded briefly at the two celebrities. "Morning," he said, and recollecting his social duties, stood upright and held out his hand. "Mike Jackson. This is Psmith."

Crosby and Malkin both performed the expected niceties, while Psmith remained seated at his stall.

"Forgive me," he said. "I find myself unexpectedly wearied by our long journey."

"We only got in from Novgorod last night," Mike felt pressed to explain. "We're both still pretty jetlagged."

"I had hoped to be made welcome here," Psmith continued, "but, alas, yet again, I must labour under the inability of my employer to spell my name as I would wish it. Always, I must suffer as plain, boring Smith." He waved an elegant hand. "Comrade Malkin, I suspect you can understand what I endure."

Sadly, Comrade Malkin did not seem to understand Psmith's pain. He merely shared a speaking look with his valiant captain, and adjourned to his own stall.

His valiant captain, meanwhile, said naught but, "You didn't actually need to be at practice today."

"As I suspected," Psmith said, "our presence is not essential. But dear Comrade Jackson, his soul, nay, his entire being, it burns for the combat of ice. Myself, I am made of sterner stuff. There is little I need in life but the presence of intelligent minds. Comrade Jackson, alas, is not so fortunate."

"Right," Crosby said. "Well. The rest of the team should be in soon, and we'll get on."


	2. On the Philosophy of Goaltending

"I am almost ashamed to admit it," Psmith was saying, "but I did, at one point, consider becoming a forward. I was advised that I had a very pretty turn of the wrist when it came to scoring. Winger, of course. I'm not the kind of man to put myself forward unless pressed. I suspect you can understand that."

"Right," Bryzgalov said.

"But it dawned on me," Psmith continued blithely, "that I simply do not have the personality for it. I am a philosopher, Comrade Bryzgalov, a philosopher plain and simple. It is all very well for lesser men to charge up and down the ice, their minds empty of everything but the puck, but that is not for you or me. A philosopher's role is to stand in the crease, to contemplate the play, and to be prepared when the play approaches."

Half an hour later, a wide-eyed Bryzgalov managed to escape, muttering, "Holy shit, he's crazy," to himself.


End file.
